Rain
by Sarlyne
Summary: Holmes searches for Watson, who was chasing after a criminal, but he can't find him. Enough reason to make Britain's genius afraid, while it's raining and raining in the dark city of London.  Angst at the beginning, but it becomes lighter at the end. :


**Note:** My first attempt ever to write a FF, but already a year old.

**Warning:** Unbeta'd.

**Reviews:** Are always welcome!

* * *

><p>Rain.<p>

Fast and hard hit tons of water the ground and floated London's streets. Somewhere the thunder growled.

"Hah...Hah..."

Out of breathe the man stood on a street. His messy black hair stuck on his head, heavy of the rain, which also run over his unshaved face and soaked his shirt and the dark trousers; however, they already were too wet and soaked as to get even more. The man's pale face showed a mixture of exhausting and- something new for this face- agony. Hands on the knees, catching for air, the man tried to calm down his running heart. The lack of oxygen, the fear and the running through the streets had made him dizzy and he was nearly about to collapse.

"Hah... Damn...!"

Holmes tried to order his thoughts, to reconstruct what had happened.

"Where are you, Watson, damn it!", he whispered, swaying slightly as the view in front of his eyes became black for a few seconds.

Somehow it was his own fault, he had brought Watson with him to this "adventure".

There was this man, Jack Grendan, one of London's several murderers. Lestrade had begged him on knees to come and catch him, since Grendan was known as an inconsiderate and dangerous man and Lestrade not the bravest. So Holmes had agreed; he had had less to do during the last time and a little thrill was pleasant. Watson, as always, wanted to accompany him- something Holmes was so used to, he hadn't thought about it any further. Not about the fact that Grendan was a dangerous psychopathic or that Lestrade actually had only four men with him. Not about the fact it would be so dangerous they would need guns. And not about the fact what could happen if they had to split up. And they had.

And now Lestrade was waiting somewhere with his men and the only ones missing were Watson and Grendan. Worst of all wasn't that he didn't knew where they were or that Watson hadn't a gun; the very worst was that he couldn't be sure if they had met or not. And if they had, then the question remained in which condition they were now.

No, it was definitely his fault. A short angry scream came from Holmes' lips, which echoed in the narrow street.

„Watson!"

The next Holmes heard was more scaring and painful than everything else he had ever heard. Sharp and loud, very near. The echo of a single shot filled the air, becoming incredible loud in Holmes' ears. His heart stopped beating for a few seconds and for the moment he didn't hear anything else. Then he ran.

Water splattered with loud noise, when his feet hit the ground with heavy steps. Breathing was almost impossible, but sometimes you do things you thought you weren't able to. Sometimes, when you are afraid. Of somebody or something. Or of something happening to somebody else. Something very bad and dangerous happening to a special, beloved person.

The thought of what it would mean if Watson were dead, was unbearable for him. Watson, his friend since so long, maybe the one who cared the most for him. His dear Watson, he couldn't be dead. And if he was, he had no idea what he should do without him. Watson was not only his friend, he was his comrade, his doctor, his soul mate, his voice of reason, his...

Holmes rushed around the next corner, a second, a third... always thinking he would collapse and don't get up soon enough to help his friend- if he still could be helped.

Around the last corner the street laid in uncomfortable shadows, so he couldn't make out anything at first. Then he saw a man leaning against the wall, holding his left arm.

"Holmes?"

The familiar voice was never so badly wished to be heard.

"I'm alright, no need to worry!" Watson stepped out of the shadows and his face showed a slight painful face. "He just got my arm, but I don't think the bullet is inside."

Holmes starred at Watson like in trance, while his friend made an excusing face.

"I'm sorry I didn't get him."

_This fool! This incredible stupid fool!_

Something hot run over his face when Holmes stumbled forward and he was surprised it came down from his eyes.

_He was alive. Alive, alive, alive! This stupid, stupid idiot!_

"I missed him, so he escaped", Watson told, trying to wipe away some mud from his jacket. "Sorry for this, I know you hate it if-" A surprised gasp escaped from his lips, as the dark haired man felt around his neck and embraced him tight.

„H-Holmes?"

"You're alive!" Holmes' voice was trembling and still the strange hot water ran down his cheeks. Watson could barely move in his embrace, but tried to put him a bit aside, confused by these sudden emotions. „Don't you ever do this again to me", Holmes mumbled. Then everything became black and the last he felt was that someone caught and hugged him, before he fell to the ground.

It was his bed in 221B Baker Street.

It was warm and comfortable, holding him still sleepy, when he woke up. Holmes yawned and cuddled deeper into the pillow. How did he come here? Hadn't he been searching for this guy named Grendan? Didn't matter anyways, but- The next moment he was full awake, blinking shocked. Grendan! The shot! Watson!

"Watson?" There was a bit of fear in his whisper, when he looked around in the room.

"I'm here."

Slowly, very slowly Holmes turned his head to see his friend sitting on the edge of the bed, who put a bandage around his arm. It took four seconds until Holmes realized it wasn't a dream. Then he jumped up and pulled him to him.

"Watson!"

Holmes hugged and squeezed his friend like a four year old would hug his new teddy bear; happy, relieved and very very hard, never wanting to let go.

"Watson! Watson, Watson, Watson!"

"I'm fine- Yes, it's enough- Uh, stop this!", Watson complained when Holmes started to kiss him on the cheeks. He tried to push Holmes away, but Holmes was too strong to be bothered by Watson's tries. "Oh, _come on, Holmes!_", he shouted angry.

Finally, Holmes let him go.

"Sorry", he mumbled. "I thought you were dead."

"I will be crushed to death, if you don't let me go!"

"Hey!", Holmes complained. "You gave me a heart attack and didn't even apologize for it! But fine" He raised his shoulders. "next time I won't be happy you're safe, I will be angry you aren't _dead_!"

"Oh, don't be silly!"

"_I_ am silly?"

"Totally!"

"Thank you so much!"

They glared angry at each other, then Holmes stood up, walking to the living room.

"Pah! Silly?", he muttered. "Ridiculous!"

He took his Stradivarius, sitting down on the couch with an offended expression, and started to pluck some notes. When Watson entered, he pretended not to hear anything, looking into the flames.

"I apologize, I overreacted."

He knew Watson waited for him to answer, but he wouldn't do him he favour, so he remained silent.

"It was a very... _exciting_ night and I'm sorry if I hurt you."

Still no answer.

"You really believed I was dead?"

The notes stopped and Holmes turned his head over the armchair, watching Watson, who stood at the door. It took a while until he answered.

"...Yes." Then he turned back, starting the music again.

"Oh~", Watson mumbled. "This must be hard."

"...Yes."

"Then" Watson came around the armchair, sitting down in the other one. "I promise you here and now that I won't do something like this ever again!" He held out his hand. "Friends?"

Holmes sighed, then grabbed it.

"Alright."

Watson smiled and both man leaned back in their armchairs, while Holmes continued to play, now with the bow. They sat there maybe for nearly forty minutes, when the blonde man suddenly asked: "Holmes?"

"Hm?"

"If I would have died, what would you have done?"

"I don't know." The violin continued to play, while the raindrops outside still hit against the windows on this rainy, grey day.

"I really don't know."

_And I don't want to think about it._


End file.
